Celebrate
by Angel of Insanity
Summary: Love, Padma thinks, is as bittersweet as tumbling down the cobblestone streets in a rickshaw. Femmeslash, Patilcest, NonExplict Smut


Celebrate

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Warnings: Incest (Parvati/Padma), Femmeslash, Smut

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London is nothing like New Delhi. It is heavy and there is almost always a perpetual chill in the air. A chill that creeps past locked doors, charmed with endless spells, and settles thick about slim ankles. Padma's eyes follow the reflection in the full length mirror, watching carefully as cinnamon pale hands work their way down her jutting collar bone and down, down, down to cup a plump breast. It only takes a moment for slim fingers to worry a rosy brown nipple into a taut bud and she knows that the reaction has nothing to do with the damp breeze pricking at her skin.

A mumble protest slips past her lips when the inquisitive hands leave her skin, but is quickly silenced by a hot mouth against the back of her neck. Even as perfect, pearl white teeth nip at the sensitive spot below her ear, Padma feels the soft sari blouse slipped over her head and secured perfectly tight along her body. Squeezing her thighs together, she grumbles when one of the devious hands slaps at the underside of her ass. Dark eyes flashing, the young woman turns quickly around to find a mirror expression of amusement on the face before her.

"You're going to muss your petticoat if you don't stand still, love."

Parvati is right, of course, but she's rarely ever wrong when it comes to matters of clothing and fashion. Or Divination. Although Padma is the smart twin, the Ravenclaw, Parvati knows how to keep the dusty streets of Delhi from sticking on your skin during a mid-day walk to the market stalls and how to apply the perfect bindi dot. And so she stops her squirming, not wanting to ruin all of her sister's work, and allows patient hands to trace indescribable patterns against the bare skin of her midriff and arms.

Skilled fingers dip down past the waist of her petticoat and the hot breath against her ear reminds Padma that she's not wearing any underwear. Not because she wants her sister to circle a finger around her clit, teasing for a few moments, before sliding between the folds of her slit and pushing in. No, no, it's because her prim and proper, virginal white knickers would completely ruin her dress line. At least this is what Parvati tells her as a second wicked, curving figure joins its mate.

And just as she's about to reach a white hot brilliant climax, the hands caressing under the starched cotton cloth pull out quickly and begin running the cloth of the heavily embroidered saffron-yellow sari into the slightly wrinkled waistband. Tuck, pleat, tuck, pleat, and the pattern continues until they've reached their starting point. Padma wants to come so badly her knees are shaking, but glossy pink lips only whisper out a husky admonition. In the perfect dry crispness of India, the mouth hovering beside her powdered cheek would smell like mangos and plain, tart yogurt. But here, the older sister by two minutes smells like sickly artificial strawberries but it doesn't make Padma want to kiss her any less.

"Just a little bit longer…"

The carefully chosen fabric is pulled across her body and looped under her right arm, dancing eyes flashing a too pretty grin in the mirror in front of them. The loose end is pulled over a nipped and teased left shoulder and as the silk tumbles down her back and past her knees, Parvati guides her hands down the swell of hips that are slightly curvier than her own and straightens out the tucked in fabric. After today, things are never going to be the same. Her sister, whose head is clouded by tangled doll-like limbs and days spent soaking in the brilliant red sunset, doesn't quite believe it yet, but, Padma has known all along. Too little time passes between the first generous pleat and the last, and the younger twin, who never possessed her sister's courage, can feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

"Padi, you're going to ruin your makeup."

"Well…well…maybe I want to."

"Ruin your makeup?"

Silence hangs more heavy in the air than even the worst humidity and the long lashes of two sets of eyes lower and look the other way. Padma isn't quite sure what to do with her hands and Parvati's keep stroking the same bare spot on the small of her back. It was bound to come to this, dark hair secured into thick, tumbling curls and delicate arms covered in bells and bangles. Today is supposed to be a day of dancing and laughter and celebration, but all Padma can think of doing is pulling down every single charm on the stupid, thick oak door and rushing down the stairs. But carefully painted fingers, that look so much like her own, managed to soothe her into place and so she fights back tears instead.

"You can come and visit, Padi. I'll leave a mango out just for you…he's not going to mind."

Him. He. The intruder into their perfect lives. They've spent so many years apart, separated by tradition and corridors and an old talking hat. And just went they regained their rhythm, the swelling, twinning, and heavy breathing, he comes to take her away. Again. Just like that, Parvati is to be spirited back to their favorite summer home and suddenly Padma feels as if India is as cold as Siberia.

"I can't, Vati, I just can't. I just…just…"

Plump lips crash together, arms locking in an intricate dance that has been learned and relearned year after year. Padma fights for dominance, to dominate, to reign in her feelings and remind herself that this is the last time. Pulling back and tucking a stray lock of hair behind her lover's, her sister's hair, she summons up all the bravery she could suck out of a kiss and forces a brilliant smile.

Just like that there's a knock at the door and their mother's high pitched voice is winding its way through the charms and under the crack in the door. It only takes a soft glamour charm to smooth the reddish raised love marks and chocolate dark eyes follow swaying hips, which are just a little less defined than her own, out of the door and down the creaking ancient stairwell.

Padma wants to tell her sister that she loves her. Wants to wish the more beautiful of the two Patil sisters good luck and congratulations. But, all she can really do is let her body guide her towards the groaning wicker bower covered in sickeningly sweet jasmine flowers. As much as she longs for sticky nights and pleading whispers, Padma knows she won't be visiting India for a very long time. More pressing matters are on her mind, however, when she sneaks away the first possible moment and lifts the twin skirts of her sari and petticoat. It seems, for as long as she's been breathing, that she's forever finishing what her beloved sister started.

Today is the first day they truly start their lives as individual entities. This alone is enough to break the keening sound that escapes across her lips and bring salty hot tears to her eyes. Love, she thinks, is as bittersweet as tumbling down the cobblestone streets in a rickshaw.


End file.
